I lay on my bed and looked up. I had a pink floodlight in lieu of a regular ceiling fixture and I had affixed a paper beehive-shaped shade to it; probably a fire hazard. What did I care? I owned nothing of value. Everything would turn out fine. Or else- hell- it would burn. I only wanted my body to bloom and bleed and be loved. I was raw with want, but in part it was a simple want, one made for easy satisfaction, quick drama, deep life: I wanted to go places and do things with her. So what if the house burned down.
—Lorrie Moore, Who Will Run the Frog Hospital? (via conniecannibal)
